


how cruel, your veins are full of ice-water and mine are boiling

by natehsewell



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Angry Love Confessions, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots That Don't Know How To Talk About Their Feelings, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Rating May Change, cursing, eventually, not super graphic violence but.... the blood and injury thing is there, there MIGHT be smut...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27663122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natehsewell/pseuds/natehsewell
Summary: Adam and the Detective are kidnapped by Trappers. The events, and their aftermath, leave them both unraveled, disarmed, and forced to make a decision.
Relationships: Female Detective/Adam du Mortain
Comments: 9
Kudos: 56





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> I, personally, can't wait for the drama of the detective giving their blood to their LI to save their life. and I love love confessions that come after both people realize how easy it would be to lose each other. so here we go.

“I want to talk to Adam.” Winona says for the third time.

Rebecca holds her gaze for a moment, the taut line of her mouth wavering. “Tell me what happened, Winona.” 

She wears the beseeching look of a desperate mother, and Winona brushes it off as easily as she brushes aside missed holidays and birthdays. 

“Winona. This is important.”

All right. That’s fine. She can wait out her mother. Wait out the whole damn Agency if she has to. She sits up further in the bed, ignoring the ripples of pain that knife through her muscle, down to the bone.

Instead of responding, she flicks open the manila folder in her lap. It’s the kind of ominous folder you see in all the crappy, B-list government conspiracy movies, where they slide it across the table slow and the antihero flicks his gaze up before opening it dramatically. Very X-Files.

It seems pretty thin, but it’s got some weight to it, and morbid curiosity slithers through her thoughts. What kind of things do they have to say, about the trappers and the house and the last three days? What could they possibly have come up with, in the time between then and now?

Rebecca doesn’t take the folder from her, and Winona won’t say it, but she appreciates that.

Pearly white paper, not a single wrinkle or stain on it. Crescent moons in the corner. Small, black print. Dated and timed. It takes a second for her vision to focus enough to make words out of the letters.

There are photos behind the written report, and she goes for those first.

Mugshots. Or the Agency equivalent of mugshots, each of them familiar enough that a sick feeling settles in her stomach. Twelve of them in total. Five women, seven men, all of them mottled with bruises and cuts, some with eyes swollen shut, the skin of their lips raw and torn, grooving cuts on their brows and cheeks where the skin was split from a blow.

She pours over each of these, slowly, and marks the ones who hurt Adam. All of them. All of them. But there are a few she wouldn’t mind a round two with. These ones, she puts into their own pile, and then she reaches for the other photos.

The first one she sees is of the basement floor, in starling clarity. Adam’s blood is a blast radius of dried, smeary red, concentrated deepest where they’d chained him to the wall. The paper gives under her fingers.

Winona sets that photo aside too. Clenches and unclenches her hand to ease the shaking, and keeps going. 

The small room where they’d kept her. It might’ve been a home office once, but it was empty save some unused furniture. There’s blood on the floor here, but it’s not hers. 

The kitchen she’d crept through. There’s a floorboard in there that creaks, and she remembers how quickly her blood had turned to ice when it did. It didn’t look like this then. Half broken counter, a toppled fridge, a smashed table. There’s a bloody kitchen knife on the hardwood floor with an orange evidence marker next to it. Not hers, either.

The wrecked living room. A couch overturned and a large crack in the wall. The TV’s on the ground, smashed beyond repair. She can’t remember this room, and moves on.

The different cars they’d used. Three of them. The back of one opens up to reveal more weapons. The other, a giant SUV with a wide open back, where they’d thrown her and Adam. The last, a seemingly normal car. 

She picks over each of these slowly, pinning memory to location, time to place, place to injury. By the end of it, her heart is rattling in her chest, and a vicious beeping from the monitor protests the acceleration.

Then she turns back to the written report, with the Agency stamp at the top and Adam’s hard signature at the bottom.

The Agency’s report goes like this.

At 6:03 PM, the Wayhaven Police Department received an anonymous phone call expressing concern over a group of strange individuals spotted near the old Eastburn and Co. building. Detective Winona Blackwood was sent to investigate. Commanding Agent Adam du Mortain, who was there on orders from Agent Rebecca Blackwood to protect the Detective due to the increased threat of supernatural and human bounty hunters, accompanied her to the area to investigate the claim. Blackwood and du Mortain found nothing out of the ordinary upon arriving at the scene—exact arrival time unknown, around 6:30—and after doing a preliminary check around the exterior, went inside to investigate the building itself. They found no sign of the group the anonymous caller had reported. 

It is believed now that the call was sent in by the bounty hunters themselves, as a way of luring Detective Blackwood out into the open. The call was traced back to a pay phone in Wayhaven, and the Agency is currently attempting to find any street camera footage that may have captured the caller. 

Upon exiting the building, Detective Blackwood and Commanding Agent du Mortain found themselves surrounded by bounty hunters armed with Agency-grade weaponry, including shock batons and DMB gas. It is unknown how long the altercation lasted. Within that time frame, Commanding Agent du Mortain was poisoned with DMB, and suffered a gunshot wound to the abdomen, as well as several flesh wounds. Shortly after that, he was overwhelmed. The full extent of Detective Blackwood’s injuries during the attack, and what she received while held by the bounty hunters, is yet unknown. Though, Commanding Agent du Mortain claims the bounty hunters expressed interest in keeping her relatively unharmed, so as to receive payment in full.

The bounty hunters took both Commanding Agent du Mortain and Detective Blackwood back to their safehouse—a small, rented house outside of Wayhaven, where we believe they had been residing for weeks before their kidnapping attempt. 

Commanding Agent du Mortain reports having very little memory of this time, fading in and out of consciousness. 

At some point during the night, it is presumed Detective Blackwood awoke and managed to free herself, where she then proceeded to go in search of Commanding Agent du Mortain. He was held in the basement of the house. He claims the bounty hunters were dosing him repeatedly with DMB, as a way of keeping him subdued. The amount of DMB found in Commanding Agent du Mortain’s system matches with this description (it is noteworthy that the Detective’s blood is strong enough to not only overcome it, but still strengthen a supernatural that has ingested it. It is possible the Detective’s blood acted almost as an antidote to the poison.)

Commanding Agent du Mortain claims to have lost control of his faculties due to injury and poisoning, and bitten Detective Blackwood. Given his record, this is a surprise. Until Detective Blackwood wakes up and gives her own testimony, it remains unclear what happened. There is the possibility that Detective Blackwood may attempt to protect her teammate by assuming responsibility for what happened. She has shown tendencies toward this in the past, and has expressed no loyalty to the Agency beyond Unit Bravo. 

The Agency has dispatched a cleanup crew to take care of the scene, and the bounty hunters have been taken into custody. Once they recover from their injuries, they will be interrogated for any possible information they have on who is paying for Detective Blackwood’s bounties.

Agent Rebecca Blackwood has been tasked with monitoring Commanding Agent du Mortain until further notice.

Agent Nathaniel Sewell has been temporarily placed in charge of Unit Bravo.


	2. chapter two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here's chapter two! this was actually supposed to be...... twice as long as it is, and i realized i had to cut the chapters in two. unbeta'd, so please forgive any mistakes. thanks for reading, and i hope you enjoy! <3

“You know, you don’t have to keep coming over here.” 

“What?” Adam stiffens, looking away from the window for the first time since military marching into her office.

Winona sighs, lolling back in her seat. With a little push of her heels, she rolls the chair back from her desk, spinning lightly. “Here.” She gestures around the office with a small turn of her hand. 

And Adam stiffens even further, if that were possible. Honestly, she wouldn’t believe it was if they hadn’t been working together so often these past few months. It’s practically a game now. The only objective is to see how long it takes till Adam looks like he’s about to pop a blood vessel. 

He turns completely, facing her with arms crossed, brow furrowed into a deep groove. “I do not know what you mean.”

She groans. “Look, _dude._ ” He scowls a little at the address, looking vaguely insulted. 

“You come over here at least three times a week—” he opens his mouth as if to protest, and she puts up a hand to stop him. And, surprisingly, he does. “Because it’s your job. I get that.” 

Her chest clenches up, a twinge of something like disappointment shooting through her. It’s not that she _wants_ Adam around—she doesn’t. At least, not like this. It wouldn’t be… it wouldn’t be terrible, to spend time with him, maybe. Outside of work, when he’s not held hostage by his job to endure her presence. If he wanted to. 

Problem is, he doesn’t. So she bites back that strange disappointment and says: “but I’m sure you’ve got, like, tanks you can be bench pressing or something. So, y’know.” She shrugs. “I’m not gonna snitch on you to Rebecca if you don’t stick around, is all.”

 _“Snitch…”_ His lips—a dark pink, cupid’s bow mouth that rarely ever relaxes from its hard line—twists down sharply. “Must you be so flippant?” He says, moving away from the window. In a few short strides he’s in front of her, looming and broad and taut as a pulled rope. 

“I’m not being flippant,” she retorts. Another step, and her breath hitches in her throat. She cranes her neck to keep her eyes on his. “I’m being polite!”

“Polite.” He deadpans. His arms cross, and the fabric of his t-shirt strains a little.

Not that she’s looking, or anything.

“What?” She stretches out till her back arches off the chair, her boots knocking into his. His expression is distinctly unimpressed, though he doesn’t step away. Not even when she curls her foot around the bend of his ankle, leverage enough to swing the chair back and forth. “Don’t say it like that. I can be polite sometimes.”

“That is one word for it, I suppose.” 

And something in the moment shifts. The width of him casts her half in shadow. She feels small like this, but it’s not… not bad. A good kind of small. Like he could turn her over in his hand, wrap her in safety, warmth. He won’t, she knows. But it—

There’s something to say, something, but whatever it is it dies in her throat as he takes another step forward.

“Your safety is not— it is not a joke, Detective. Nor is it something to be treated so carelessly.” A bated pause. ”Something _I_ would treat so carelessly. And neither should you.”

He’s in front of her, broad-shouldered, sturdy hips. There’s no room for her sprawling legs like this, so she moves. Accommodates. Sets them on either side of his legs. Ankle to ankle, eye to eye. If she stands up now, their bodies will meet. Could she feel his heart, if she did that? Stood and lined all their limbs up together?

She croaks out, “guess it would look bad on the end of the year performance review, huh?” but the words are gummy, and she swallows around them. “Can’t even keep one human alive.”

Adam’s breath hitches. His face crushes, and she feels it like it’s her own mouth, her own brow. She wants to take the words back as soon as she says them.

Her heart skip-stutters, beating fast enough she can feel it on the ribcage, almost hear it, and— god. One of his hands sets out, settles on the armrest of her chair, and he’s leaning down, into her space. 

For one brief, terrifying second, she thinks he’s going to kiss her.

She wouldn’t push him away if he did.

The intensity of his eyes, a shade of green she’s never seen on anyone. They’re so close she can count the different colors. Lightest at the center, threading together with shades of emerald and jade. Stalks of grass and long-necked bottles and there isn’t a color in the world she could mix to paint his eyes exactly right. She swallows hard, watches the way his eyes flicker down and his pupils blow wide.

“Do not… you are…” rough, near guttural. “An utmost priority, Winona.” He murmurs, “there is nothing more important than keeping you safe.”

A knot of everything she wants to say tangles in her throat, and all she can do is stare, breathless, as his other hand raises. He’s going to touch her. He’s going to, and her eyes flutter, half-shut in anticipation. 

She can feel his fingertips before they brush her face, like a soft phantom pain. Can imagine how his long, long fingers will spread out, curving all the way to the back of her skull.

They’re so close. She could lean up, and—

“Winona!” The door slams open. Winona jumps, snapping upright in her chair.

Adam flies back so quickly, he must be using a hint of vampire speed. 

Tina, one arm full of unfiled papers. “Uhhh… am I interrupting something?” She asks, tilting her head to the side, and Winona wants to hiss _yes_. 

But Adam gets there first. “No.” He snaps, looking away from them both, his face shuttering closed. Whatever vulnerability he’d given her before is gone now, and Winona feels its loss, resents it.

She grinds her teeth till it pangs, yanking herself back to her desk. Frustration, bordering on anger, twists in her gut like a knife. 

One. Two. She inhales through her nose, exhales through her mouth. “You need something, or did you just come to grace us with your presence?” 

It comes out sharper than she intended. Or maybe exactly how she intended, frothing on that sensation of intrusion. Tina wavers for a minute, then grins, and Winona knows she’s made a mistake. Tina shoots her a _look_ that says they’ll talk about this later, and then straightens up. 

“Actually, I do have something for you. Got a call about some, ahem, ‘suspicious individuals’ hanging out over by Eastburn.”

“Who was driving out near Eastburn?”

Tina raises one shoulder, making an _I don’t know_ noise. “Probably just some passerby.”

It’s kind of odd. Anonymous calls are rare. People in Wayhaven love to put their names on all their calls. Always looking for the chance to say they were the one that caught Diana Robinson’s son, back at it again with the underage drinking. If they can’t take credit for it, then they’ll at least stop her in the grocery store to ask how that _thing_ went, in quiet, hushed whispers. Like they called in a drug deal instead of some goddamn neighbor’s dog, yapping its head off.

“Still gotta check it out though.” Tina says, giving her a pointed look.

Winona groans, pushing herself up. “I’m going, I’m going. At least I can give the little brats some pointers on not getting caught.”

Tina snorts, rolling her eyes. “ _Suuure_ , because that’s totally what their parents wanna hear.”

“Guess they should keep a better eye on their kids then.” Winona grunts, rolling her shoulders.

“Because it’s that easy.” 

“Sure it is.” Winona grins, cutting across her office to pick up her jacket. 

Adam freezes. 

Winona doesn’t look at him. At least, not full on. His presence blisters up the side of her body, hyper aware of the slight way he straightens up, inhales, prepares to speak.

“I will accompany you.” He says.

 _Not a chance in hell._ “Thanks, but—”

“I think that’s a great idea!” Tina blurts, stepping forward. 

She deliberately ignores the fuming glare Winona shoots her. 

Adam pauses, watching Tina with a look on his face she wants to call confused, then turns away from her. “I will meet you at your car.” He states, and he shoves past Tina, not waiting for a reply. He’s gone, no second glance back.

Winona watches the space he held for a slight second, and turns back to Tina, all sharp scowls and a reprimand half-formed.

“What was that all about! Hello!” Tina says, rushing forward. 

“Nothing.” Winona hisses, shrugging off the hand Tina puts on her shoulder. “It was— it was nothing.”

“That was not nothing. What did I interrupt?”

“Oh my god.” Winona groans, pushing her hair back from her face. “Nothing, alright? Nothing happened.” And she shoots her a look that says _thanks to you_.

“You’re gonna tell me everything later, got it, Blackwood?”

“Uh huh.” Winona rolls her eyes, and follows after Adam without another word.

* * *

The car ride is only about fifteen minutes long, but it stretches out into eternity. 

Adam insists on driving, mentioning something along the lines of her reckless endangerment of herself and pedestrians when behind the wheel. Nearly hit a fire hydrant with him in the car one time, and he never lets you live it down. 

Asshole.

It’s kind of funny, though. In its own way. Adam driving the hatchback reminds her distinctly of a parent pulling their child along by the back of their shirt. Wrangling her groaning old car into submission, his eye twitches when it can’t go over 50 without wheezing.

“When was the last time you took this…” his lip curls, “vehicle, to a mechanic?”

Winona rolls her eyes. He says _vehicle_ the way he says _human_ , with sneering disdain and a little bit of pretentiousness. 

“I don’t know, a couple years ago?”

If he wasn’t such an oh-so-responsible driver, she’s pretty sure he’d be glaring daggers at her by now. But instead he keeps his eyes firmly planted on the road, and exhales a sound of exasperation so low and rough she thinks she might have physically pained him. 

“ _Years?”_

“Eh. It runs, doesn’t it?”

“Barely. Your engine sounds like a wounded animal.”

“Gets me where I need to go.” She shoots back, sticking her feet on the dashboard.

Adam turns his head minutely, glaring at her boots. She doesn’t move them.

“Until such time as it breaks down on you. And it will. Likely in the near future.”

“Oh, what are you now, a car expert?”

She could probably think of something better. _It’ll break down when you do._ Or, _will you come rescue me when it does?_ just to watch him get flustered and irritated. But she’s tired and annoyed, and the prolonged, close quarter contact with him’s got her brain fogged up a bit, so she just rolls her head to the side, arching an eyebrow.

Adam stills. Takes a turn with smooth, easy precision. Drops the hatchback down to thirty five as they turn onto a dirt road, kicking dust up behind them.

He briefly turns to her, his expression drawn tight, as if he’s turning something over in his head. Weighing pros and cons. 

“It is… a hobby, of mine.” He says, and doesn’t elaborate further.

_Wait, what?_

It takes a second to connect the dots between Adam and the word hobby. And then she realizes he’s sharing. Sharing a small, unnecessary part of himself. The kind of things friends share with each other. Adam du Mortain has a _hobby_ , a hobby he just told her about without her dragging it out of him with a pair of pliers, and she can’t help it, a beamy grin splits across her face. 

It’s useless, useless information, and it’s beautiful. 

“You like cars?” She prompts, taking on a gentler tone. Dropping her feet off the dash, Winona twists in her chair until she’s facing him fully, arms crossing on the console.

Adam shifts under her undivided attention. Pauses, hesitant and unsure. Like he doesn’t quite know how to tread these particular waters. “Yes.” there’s a slow stint to his words, each one drawn out of his mouth with careful consideration. “I enjoy working on them. Though I rarely indulge it now.”

“Oh.” Winona nods, holding her breath. The air between them feels like glass, and she holds it with care. “What kinda cars?” 

He smiles, a barely-there twitch of his lips. “I believe you would call them vintage.” _You,_ he says with pointed emphasis, and it shocks a laugh out of her. 

He’s making an age joke and telling her about a hobby of his and her chest expands, contracts, swells up with a flighty kind of feeling. through her. Feels like sunshine straight to the bloodstream. 

She takes a moment to work that under control. Then, “so… race cars?”

“Some, yes.” He nods, flicking her gaze to her again. 

The car bumps and groans on the dirt road, the forest rolling past them in shades of deep greens and browns. Adam handles it with sure, steady hands on the wheel. “And you like to fix them up?”

“I did, at one point. Though my work comes first. Unit Bravo’s constant reassignment hasn’t allowed for anything as trivial as that in a long time.”

Trivial. Winona frowns. It’s not trivial, not if he enjoys it. And—

And it’s not her job to tell him that. He’s got eight hundred and something years on her. He’s a big boy. 

Still. 

She thinks of the charred, broken down old mustang collecting dust in Rebecca’s garage. Rook’s car, all faded red and old ghosts, halfway fixed up when she was just a baby and lost again to the wear and tear of time and disuse. She’d considered once, trying to find someone else to fix it for her, but that felt… wrong. Like inviting a stranger in to poke at a bruise she couldn’t remember getting. Convinced herself at the age of 17 she could learn to do it herself, and then never got around to it. He could—

Well. He could help.

Would it feel just as wrong, to mention it to Adam? To invite him to thumb at her bruises, to give him that kind of an opening. To give herself that kind of an opening. 

Before she can think too hard on it, she blurts, “I mean, I’ve got a car.” 

_Great lead, Nona._

“Yes, I’m aware.” Adam deadpans, and she groans. She’s about to interrupt when he says, “if you’re asking for my assistance with your automobile, the best recommendation I could give is for you to simply replace it. It is—”

She juts her pointer finger out at him, cutting him off at the halfway mark. “First of all, rude. Second of all, that’s not what I meant.” 

It’s only then she realizes the ride’s over, and they’ve rolled to a stop. Adam puts the hatchback in park, and turns to mirror her, his forearm bracing on the console. 

She keeps going. “I have a different car.” Not really. It’s not hers, but it’s not Rebecca’s either; and it’s not like her mother will do anything with it, regardless. Rook is not a bruise for her, he is a wound, a wound that bleeds when you stick your fingers into it. Her mother will leave it to collect dust, one more urn to her husband’s memory.

And Rebecca might not want Commanding Agent du Mortain in the folded pages of her life, but it’s Winona’s life too, and she has as much a right to it as her mother. 

So she goes on. 

“It’s a Ford Mustang. Nineteen sixty something.”

Adam stares at her. Winona stares back, feeling raw and exposed under his sharp, flaying gaze. 

But Winona’s well-versed in the many different frowns Adam’s got in his inventory. He isn’t scowling, so much as pondering, and she’ll call the softening of his mouth interest, curiosity. Hope sticks its head up.

“...I see.” 

Well.

Not exactly the response she was hoping for. 

“I mean,” she stumbles, then, the words pouring out of her. Trying to press a part of herself in his palm, like if she can just keep him talking they can cross this no man’s land between them. “You could… if you wanted, you could come and look at it. It’s not like I’m gonna find someone else. And you said you haven’t really had a chance to do anything like that in awhile—”

“I would like that.” Adam interrupts her rambling mess, and he seems—surprised? His eyes are wide. She could even say vulnerable. It reminds her, a little, of a startled animal.

She can’t quite believe it, and maybe neither can he.

Winona works her jaw, waiting for him to change his mind. When he doesn’t immediately take it back, she says, “really?”

Adam’s face hardens, the sliver of openness ripped from him in an instant. “Unless you were not being serious—”

“What? No! I was. Am.” She insists. Tension ripples through her shoulders, already on the defensive.

But Adam doesn’t argue with her. “As am I.”

As quickly as her hackles rise, Winona forces them back down. She nods and smiles, a small, soft thing. “Okay then. It’s, uhhh…” she’s about to say _it’s a date,_ then thinks better of it. “It’s a plan.”

He watches her carefully for a moment, and then his lips quirk up into a ghost of a smile. “I look forward to it.” 

A cord of excitement strikes through her, electric. 

Without another word, he exits the car in a few short, jerky movements. Before she can even get her belt completely off, Adam’s cut around to her side of the car. He opens the door for her, stepping to the side. 

She blinks. Shakes her head, ignoring the warmth that bubbles up at his weird, oddly sweet gesture. “Okay, who are you and what did you do to Adam du Mortain?” 

“I was simply being polite.” He retorts, steely as always. 

There’s that word again. 

She looks up to see his eyes glinting with amusement. 

“That’s one word for it.” She snorts, smirking.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Detective.”

“Sure you don’t.”

He doesn’t respond to that. Slams the passenger door behind her, turns on his heel with a short, “Shall we?” and begins walking away. 

The grass crunches under her heels. It’s longer, out here. Untamed and left to grow wild with dandelions and weeds. Her steps send groups of small insects into the air, and they circle her heels. 

Eastburn and Co.’s dead center in the middle of half a forest clearing. Trees on one side, stretches of field on the other. Far enough out of the main town that only in the distance you can see another collection of would-be warehouses. And it’s got none of the artistry to deserve the word ruin. A ruin conjures up images of crumbling history and architecture, romantically giving way to the passage of time.

Eastburn caves in on itself like an open mouth, brown brick mottled with moss and graffiti, roof half collapsed. There’s only a few people in Wayhaven that still remember what the place was even for, and Winona’s not one of them. The only thing that’s really left of it are stories of a little girl dying here, her giggles always echoing throughout the building. Catch her in the corner of your eye, if you’re lucky.

But whether the place is haunted or not is irrelevant, honestly. It’s the story that counts. Wayhaven teenagers looking for a little bit of room to breathe love to come up here and test their soft-belly nerves on Eastburn’s rotted bones.

Winona was one of them, once. The dare: stay inside the building, no light but the cut of the moon above you, for thirty minutes. 

She’d tucked her lighter into her pocket and stayed in there for an hour, till Billy Jameson cracked his voice calling for her from the outside, thinking she’d gotten snatched up by ghosts. While she was in there, she’d carved her name into a bannister. _Winona,_ a jagged scar on dead wood.

Maybe she’ll see if the mark’s still there, or if some brave teenager has carved their own presence over hers. 

Adam enters Eastburn first, shouldering the old metal door open with ease. It’s half off its hinges already, and she nearly makes a joke about him breaking it the rest of the way. Holds back, but only just. Whatever looseness he had before yields to sharp tension. Ready for anything.

She crosses the threshold of the doorway and into the wide, heavy-handed expanse of the old building. The first floor stretches out wide in front of them, the kind of place where you can see everything all at once. 

It’s barren, for the most part. Humid, too. Trash litters the area. Bags of food, empty bottles, debris from the roof. Thrown bricks. Glass. The ground is part dirt, part slabs of cracked concrete. Winona kicks aside a glass beer bottle as she walks, and the rattling sound echoes hollowly. The scent of abandonment and dust and mold clings to everything. It lines her throat when she inhales.

Summertime clings to the walls in welting heat. Presses down on her skin in a filmy layer of dampness. Her white t-shirt shirt sticks to her back, her chest, and she pinches the fabric between her fingertips, pulls and shakes it to bring a little coolness back against her skin.

And it is completely empty. No sign of life to be found. Whoever was here has moved on. 

Adam’s several feet ahead of her, taking slow, cautious steps as he inspects the room. “Careful.” She calls.

“Why?” Sudden strain cords through his voice. He scans the main floor, fists clenched at his side, waiting for something to jump out at him. 

Winona sinks her teeth into her cheek to stave off a smile. “Place is haunted.” 

“What?” He whips around, incredulous.

“Place is haunted.” She repeats. “There’s a little ghost girl running around here. Better watch out, vampire man.” 

A heartbeat. Adam stares at her with a truly remarkable amount of disappointment on his face. 

“Is that a joke?” 

“Nope.” Winona beams, popping the _p._ “I’m being dead serious… oh, fuck. See what I did there? Dead serious.”

Adam groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his middle finger and thumb. But the tightly wound stress he carried in his shoulder blades slumps loose, and she can’t help but feel a little pride at that. Mission accomplished.

“It appears whoever was here has moved on.” Adam sighs, inspecting the empty expanse of the room. Sunlight spills over the gaping hole in the roof, concentrated at the center. 

“Just some kids, I bet. We sometimes get calls about it, but they’re not hurting anyone, so it’s kind of annoying.” She shrugs. 

Adam raises his eyebrow, not quite judging so much as confused. “Annoying? Is it not your responsibility to respond to calls like those?”

“Yeah, of course.” Winona nods. “But not when it’s bullshit. They’re just assholes who know exactly what they’re doing, trying to get kids in trouble for no reason. I’d even get it if they were worried about kids getting hurt, but they aren’t.”

“That’s rather presumptuous, wouldn’t you say?” 

She scoffs, shaking her head. “I grew up here, Adam. I’m pretty sure I know what I’m talking about.” 

“Perhaps.” He hums, taking a step toward her. “Though this feels rather personal.”

“Probably because I was one of those dumb kids that got in trouble.” Winona grins. “A lot. Gives me perspective.”

He’s in front of her now, only a foot or so away. “That is… entirely unsurprisingly.”

“Ouch.” She plays at offense, crossing her arms, rolling back on one heel and jutting her hip to the side. “What’s that supposed to mean, du Mortain?” 

Adam smiles. Almost. The slightest quirk of the corner of his mouth, and she has to work to keep her own face straight. “It means I have never known you to adhere to any will other than your own, Winona.”

 _Winona._ Her name, and he’s looking at her and it’s different. Softer, somehow. It’s him, pressing himself into her palm, a glint in his eye that leaves her faltering.

She opens her mouth, tries to work a response up, but before she can string two thoughts together Adam’s spine snaps straight. In the blink of an eye, he’s in front of her, between her and the exit, his palm bearing on her shoulder, gripping firmly. It brokers no argument, no give, and she _knows_ that look. He wore it once, in the rain, in the dark, before Murphy had taken her. 

“What’s wrong—” Winona whispers, dread spreading up her skin in tingling waves. 

“Shh.” He hisses. A minute turn of his head, as if he’s straining to hear. Winona drops her hand to her holster, feeling for the cold bite of metal. Just in case.

She went years without so much as touching the damn thing before Unit Bravo. Never used her gun before. Never wanted to. Never wants to. A sick feeling stirs in her stomach, when the weight is a comfort.

Several seconds pass in icy silence.

Then she hears engines, rumbling outside, the faintest note of machine and human presence. 

Adrenaline pumps into her veins, kickstarting her heart and numbing her out. That sense of danger sends her body into a vicious, almost heady place, right before the fight or flight instinct kicks in. She’s loose and tight and her skin itches with the need to _do_ something. She rolls her hand into a fist, skin straining on the knuckle.

Adam twists his head back, his gaze like chipped glass. “Stay here. Do you understand me?”

“What?” _Fuck that._ She’s not going to sit here and let him go face whatever this is alone. A quick work of her fingers, and the holster of her gun is loose. Gun in hand, the metal quickly warms to her touch. “No. I’m going with you.”

“I don’t have time to argue this with you, Winona.” He snaps, grip tightening on her shoulder. “I can hear several people outside. You _will_ stay here until I return for you.”

Several. And her resolve only steels, hot on the furnace of anger. There’s fear there, too, clawing out under her skin, and her vision is so startling, so clear. Her hands don’t shake on the handle of her gun, finger slotting into the trigger, safety unlatched.

“That’s your master plan? You leave me here to wait around and hope for the best?”

“Yes.” Adam snarls, closer than ever, and she wants to snarl back, tilts her head up to keep his eyes. 

She’s not _leaving_ him. Not ever.

Not again.

“Fuck your plan, Adam. It sucks.” Winona says, tearing roughly out of her throat, tinged with desperation and a startling need to protect. To defend. 

Unbidden, images of Adam, bruised and bloody and splayed out on the slaughterhouse floor of a trapper’s den flash through her mind. Adam, surrounded. Adam, abandoned while she chased after their target. 

Adam’s face twists, emotions she can’t name deepening there. 

He wants to insist, she knows. To argue and demand and keep her here, tucked into a corner where she can’t be seen. But it means nothing. There’s only one exit, and there is no place to hide. Whatever is out there will find its way in here, and it will find her. 

It’s no more than a second, but it feels like forever. “Stay behind me,” he says, and his hand slips from her shoulder.

* * *

Winona snaps the folder shut, and tosses it toward her mother. “Your report is wrong.”

Rebecca frowns, her brow grooving deeply. She looks very, very tired, and Winona notes the deep, purple bags under her eyes, the slight curve of her usually impeccable posture. 

She’s tired, too, and wonders if her bruises are just as dark around her eyes.

“In what way?” Rebecca asks, picking the folder up and flicking through it. Her eyes scan the report, as if she can spot the inconsistency herself.

“He didn’t lose control.”

Rebecca freezes. Then looks up at her, a measured rise of her gaze, sharp and calculating. As a kid, Rebecca would give her that look sometimes, whenever she thought she was lying. Like she could pry the truth from her with a look alone. It’s _Agent Blackwood_ she’s dealing with now. Agent Blackwood, who is not a fool, and does not tolerate a liar.

Winona doesn’t flinch.

“Are you saying Commanding Agent du Mortain lied on his report, Winona?”

“No, I think he thinks that.” She says, serious and slow. “It’s just not how it happened.”

“Then how did it happen?” Rebecca prompts, 

Silence. Then, “I want to talk to him first.”

**Author's Note:**

> not quite sure yet how many chapters this is going to be, but at least a few - we've gotta get through the Angst(tm) to get to the romance. thanks for reading! hmu on tumblr to talk about the emotional support vampires @dumortainava


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